The Poetical Works of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats: Complete in One Volume

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Página 90 Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem As they were blossoming hues
of fire and gold; The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay, The many clouds,
the sea, the rock, the sands, Lie in the silent moonshine: and the owl, (Strange!

Página 107 Some sighs That is not breathed would swell my heart to stifling 1 May Heaven
and thine own virtues, high-born lady Be as a shield of fire, far, far aloof To scare
all evil from thee! Yet, if sate Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger, ...

Página 119 The demon-hunters of the middle air Are in full cry, and scare with arrowy fire The
guilty! Hark! now here, now there, a horn Swells singly with irregular blast! the
tempest Has scatter'd them : [Horns heard as from different places at a distance.

Página 121 ... who love their home; For freedom can with those alone abide, Who wear the
golden chain, with honest pride, Of love and duty, at their own fire-side: While
mad ambition ever doth caress Its own sure fate, in its own restlessness!
PREFACE.

Página 142 O when a house is doom'd in fire to perish, Many and dark, heaven drives his
clouds together, Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights, Flames
burst from out the subterraneous chasms, *And fiends and angels mingling in
their fury, ...

Pasajes populares

Página 210 - I bear light shades for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again 1 dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

Página 212 - Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then — as I am listening now.

Página 211 - I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below.

Página 65 - There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek — There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Página 211 - That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer...

Página 205 - So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves...

Página 205 - ODE TO THE WEST WIND O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow...

Página 212 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.